


Tarot

by LysanderandHermia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kinda, Sebastian does a Tarot reading, Tarot, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 14:41:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12278613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LysanderandHermia/pseuds/LysanderandHermia
Summary: Walking into the new booth in the market square with shrouded drapes on three of the four sides that proudly read “Fortune Telling” in big, handpainted letters on a piece of cardboard outside, wasn’t something Jim was particularly inclined to do, all things considered. And yet. And yet. There was something about it that pulled at him incessantly, like a nagging thought in his mind, calling out to him.--Jim isn't superstitious, and Sebastian doesn't fit the look of a fortune teller.





	Tarot

**Author's Note:**

> two years late to my own party but here we go getting back onto the wagon of 30 days of managing for a week at most and then failing miserably!
> 
> i actually high key love the idea of casual witch Sebastian tho maybe i'll do something bigger with it one day pfft

Superstitions and occult (or divine, if you wanted to word it that way instead) forces had never been things that James Moriarty had ever put stock in; he walked underneath ladders (usually giving them a shove as he went), he made sure that his tables more often than not had 13 seats filled, he didn’t particularly have an inclination for certain numbers better or keep lucky charms. 

Walking into the new booth in the market square with shrouded drapes on three of the four sides that proudly read “Fortune Telling” in big, handpainted letters on a piece of cardboard outside, wasn’t something Jim was particularly inclined to do, all things considered. And yet.  _ And yet. _ There was something about it that pulled at him incessantly, like a nagging thought in his mind, calling out to him. He paused, glancing up from his phone and pulling his earbuds slowly out, taking in the gaudy and heavy draperies, the incense smoke drifting out in what was supposed to be an eerie way. No one seemed to be inside, though Jim wouldn’t have been surprised if an old lady dressed in heavy robes and tons of jewelry had materialized out of the pile of pillows and blankets on the ground inside the makeshift tent. 

Of all booths in the Saturday Market, it was the most tacky and out of place. Jim scoffed and turned away, only to nearly walk into a man who was standing next to him, also watching the booth. “Terrible, isn’t it?” The man said, glancing at him with a grin that had layers and wasn’t  _ that _ a bit intriguing? “God awful, if you ask me, but it keeps most people away.” The tall blonde turned to sit at a small table off to the side of the tent, neatly tucked back and away from the crowds, but easy to get to. It was wooden, solid, and while cheap, it was a soothing thing to look at, after the booth. “Come on, then,” he gestured for Jim to sit, slipping his hands into his hoodie’s front pocket, feet splayed wide and watching Jim with an even gaze. 

Jim’s head tilted slightly to the side, and he sat down after a moment’s contemplation, elbows on the table to lean over at the man, “What is it you do, give advice on how to avoid decorating like that?” He asked lightly, regarding the man in front of him. Tall, a bit worse for wear - world weary, that was the expression - blonde, ripped, and exactly Jim’s type when he was in the mood. He also didn’t seem intimidated by his glare or demeanour, something most people had at least a bit of trouble with. That being said, Jim was dressed down from the usual suits today, out and about, gathering some of his own intelligence amongst ‘friends’. He didn’t look his usual self. 

“I’m the fortune teller,” The man said, pulling a worn pack of cards out of his pocket, that grin back on his face, and Jim was surprised enough to let out a laugh.

“You’re the fortune teller?” He repeated, voice dry and sarcastic, giving him another once over, “You don’t fit the part very well, love, if that tent is yours,” he jerked his thumb sideways, and the man laughed, deep and amused.

“Too true. The tent is to keep people I don’t want to read away. I like to pick my own clients.” He started shuffling the deck of what Jim now recognized as handmade tarot cards, though he didn’t know what any of them meant or did. 

“And if your clients don’t want their fortunes read?” Jim asked, raising an eyebrow, though he didn’t move to get up or to interrupt the man’s practiced shuffling and okay, here’s the thing: Jim did masks and bending social constructs and norms all day, every day, but  _ this guy did not look like a fortune teller _ , with his militaristic haircut and clean shaven face, normal (if boring) clothes, and a face worn comfortably, completely devoid of mysticism and wonder. 

The man scoffed, tone amused, as he started dealing out the cards in what seemed to be a complicated spread, though the method seemed haphazard to Jim. He couldn’t find the pattern, and the man wasn’t looking down, just watching Jim and letting his hand move of its own accord as he spoke, “Everyone wants to know their fortune, Jim, and anyone who says differently is lying to themselves.”

Jim bristled immediately, jaw tightening, and the man hushed him like a mother to a child, making Jim even more angry, “I know your name, dove, but you can know mine too. Sebastian Augustus Moran. A fair trade, alright?” 

This wasn’t something that had ever appeased James Moriarty before. No one cooed at him to relax, no one offered their own name as an equal exchange for his own, and no one called him dove, but something tugged in his chest, and he frowned instead of standing and walking away, or better yet, figuring out how to painfully dice the man in front of him using his precious cards. 

Sebastian, however, simply dropped his eyes to the spread before him, all cards on the table, some face down, some face up, some stacked, others on their own, and set about at random, as far as Jim could be the judge - and he prided himself on the patterns he saw everywhere. “Pick nineteen cards. But don’t think about them. Just look at me and grab the ones that call out.”

Why was he bothering with this? He wasn’t the kind of person to put stock in this sort of thing, or to be spoken to this way. He killed people to be sure no one spoke to him like this. Jim glanced down, then settled his irritated gaze on Sebastian, who only smirked in response and sat back, folding his arms. He reached out and grabbed several at once, closest to him, but when Sebastian only kept a level expression, Jim rolled his eyes. He grabbed two more somewhere on his left, one far across the table and almost out of reach, but as he grabbed the rest, he couldn’t help but feel like his hand  _ was _ being drawn to the cards as he went, even picking one up and dropping it back down in favor of another that felt better in his hand. And all the while, he kept his gaze on Sebastian, who stared levelly back. 

When he had nineteen, he offered them out to Sebastian, but the man shook his head and swept the extra cards back into the box in a few smooth motions, then gestured to the table. “Put them down in any order. You can look at them or not, or arrange them however you want.”

Jim raised an eyebrow, “This isn’t a very good tarot reading,” he said dryly, pretty certain that this wasn’t how it happened in movies, or traditionally, but fully aware he was bluffing completely blind. He had no information about this kind of thing at all, and Sebastian laughed, and Jim couldn’t tell if he could see through it or not. 

“It’s the best reading you’ll ever get,” and Sebastian said it like Jim said he’d cut someone’s heart out if they failed him - true and sure, a fact. His heartbeat quickened slightly, and the air felt charged, “I told you, everything else is for show. This is true divination. And now is the time to walk away if you aren’t ready to see what the cards have for you.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Jim said, attempting haughty, but the hair was standing up on the back of his neck and along his arms, and Sebastian suddenly looked a bit otherworldly, like something out of his homeland; seventy percent mischief, forty percent truth and ten percent stab-you-if-you-cross-them terrifying.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, “Our lives intertwine in many different places and ways, Jim. If you don’t believe me, or don’t want to believe me, like I said, you should walk away.”

Instead, Jim responded, “You never gave me a quote on what this costs,” and Sebastian threw back his head and laughed, making all other noises in the Saturday Market seem soft and quiet, dulled down and distant.

“This is what I  _ do _ , dove. There’s no charge for the truth, not from me.”

Jim took in a shaky breath, staring back into eyes that now held an equal amount of danger as his own, and then began setting his cards down.


End file.
